


Mad Sounds

by thelogicoftaste



Series: We'll Paint the Town in Blue [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Serial Killers, Dark!Derek, Dark!Isaac, Emotional Manipulation, M/M, Mild Gore, Moral Ambiguity, Nurse!Derek, Stockholm Syndrome, Techie!Stiles, dark!stiles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-12
Updated: 2014-03-12
Packaged: 2018-01-15 11:52:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,921
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1303894
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thelogicoftaste/pseuds/thelogicoftaste
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some people, Derek has decided, deserve to live. Others? Not so much.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mad Sounds

**Author's Note:**

> Sometimes, I have wonderful anons on tumblr and they say this: i have a mighty need for dark stiles and dark derek in my life. and maybe they both take dark isaac under their wing and the trio have robin hood type adventures only slightly more badass and a lot more evil oh yes oh yes i have a mighty need
> 
> and I mean, I can't just _not_ , right?

[Mad sounds, in your ears, makes you feel alright.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uimWYQcxjhk) 

-

Some people, Derek has decided, deserve to live. Others? Not so much.

There’s a little girl.

There’s a little girl and she’s called Bianca; she’s all of four feet and seven inches, but she walks like she’s taller, shoulders proud and her chin tipped up, beatific smile lighting up her face.

She has the faintest dusting of freckles over the bridge of her nose and the tops of her cheeks, they’re a deep dark russet, almost black, and they settle over her brown skin like constellations.

“I’m Somali _and_ American,” she tells Derek proudly; frail, delicate hand twisted into the shirt of his scrubs as he writes her vitals down on the clipboard he'd picked up from the end of her bed.

He stops writing, leans down to tug lightly at one of her pigtails, two thickly corded black braids wound into buns at the crown of her head, “You’re beautiful.”

Bianca’s mom is sitting on the other side of the bed, stiffer even than the chair she’s perched upon, purse held tightly on her lap, her face betraying the apprehension she feels as her little girl withers away on a hospital bed.

But she smiles when she sees the way that Derek interacts with Bianca, and Bianca’s father claps Derek on the back, and Cory-Elliot shakes Derek’s hand and thanks him for looking after his sister.

Later, Bianca is coughing up blood, sighing miserably with every painful intake of breath she heaves, and the doctor presses a cold stethoscope to her chest and instructs her to breathe in. Derek stands behind him and contorts his face into funny expressions until Bianca is rattling brittle laughs when she’s supposed to be breathing in and out, properly and steadily.

The doctor frowns slightly at the way that she’s not co-operating, but Bi’s eyes are scrunched up and her cheeks must hurt with how wide she’s smiling, little teeth glinting.

Bi’s mom, Celia, leans in close to Derek when the doctor leaves. She pats Derek's arm twice and blinks away tears, smiling weakly.

“You are the _best_ nurse she has ever had, you know?” she tells him quietly. Her words are broken and slow, but the sentiment remains strong and fierce all the same. Celia steels herself and looks him in the eye, “I’m so glad she met you.”

She doesn’t say anything else before she turns back, returning to the chair beside her dying daughter’s bed, but she doesn’t need to. Bi is eleven years old, and she’s _dying -_ down to nothing but bad luck and flawed human nature, and it’s not _fair_.

Derek stands in the threshold, watching this family trying to keep themselves together at the seams. Bi is asleep, but she dreams fitfully, her older brother is sitting on the floor at the end of her bed, mindlessly turning over the baseball in his hands. Her father is seated over by the window, head dropped heavily in his hands. Celia sits on the chair next to the bed, stoic but resigned, purse held tightly in her hands and her eyes firmly resting on her daughter.

So Derek heads home.

-

Later, much, _much_ later, when Stiles is lying sprawled over Derek’s body, naked and sated, he hums deeply, turning his head to press kiss after kiss after kiss on Derek’s skin, tracing an invisible line to the hinge of Derek’s jaw.

Stiles shuffles up a little, resting his head on the pillow next to Derek, close enough that their warm breaths gust over each other’s faces. He cards gentle fingers through Derek’s hair, careful and comforting.

“What’s wrong?” he asks quietly, eyes turning serious all at once, even through their fondness.

Derek blinks, slowly; exhaling a breath so soft it barely even moves the air around them.

“There’s a little girl.”

-

Finding the right person is easy - it's  _easier_ when Stiles is more than capable of hacking into the hospital system.

Derek’s leaning over his shoulder as Stiles types away at one of the laptops he brings home from work. This one is an old _Sony Vaio_ , with a bright pink case and _Pokémon_ stickers around the keyboard, belonging to a girl named Fee who’s having issues with the fan on her laptop.

It's safer, they find, to use someone else's computer system instead of having to laboriously cover their own tracks. This time, they need to find someone with healthy lungs, and so they skim over every relevant medical file until they find the type of person they're looking for.

The person they find this time, is a man who’s been admitted twice already this past year to have his liver pumped because of too-large an alcohol intake. Derek curls his lip over his teeth, anger frothing forward as he thinks of Celia and Bi scrounging for coins to grant her a few more days in hospital, a few more hours of treatment, whilst assholes such as this one spend money on nothing but booze, expecting people like Derek to save their lives with gracious gestures and glad smiles.

Tracking the man down is the simplest thing out this entire procedure; he lives in a suburban part of town, with a Toyota parked outside and pretty white netting hanging in the windows.

Stiles and Derek break in almost effortlessly, accompanied only by the stillness of the early dark hour of the morning and the lone dog bark from three streets away.

The man is nothing special. His glasses are sitting on the bedside table, he’s snoring with his mouth open, there’s a tumbler of cheap whiskey on the dresser and pretentious beer bottles grouped on the windowsill. It’s repulsive.

The man used to be the swim coach for the local high school. He’s retired now, reclusive, and there are a dozen trophies, worn down with age and constant polishing, proclaiming winning titles to _Michael Lahey_ , the triumph once held in their gold-coloured metal inscriptions diluted to nothing but a distant memory.

Lahey wakes up just as Derek’s shadow falls over him. He startles, small eyes widening and mouth dropping open as he surges up, an inevitable, defenceless yell tearing from his throat.

Stiles knocks him straight back out with one clean blow; a delicate flick of his wrist, lithe power harnessed and concentrated on the heel of his palm and Lahey is dropping back unconscious on the bed.

Stiles turns to grin at Derek and the dim light from the streetlamps outside illuminates his face in shadows and crevices. His brown eyes are bright, like there’s a fire idling just beneath his visage. Stiles smirks, and the light glints off of the alabaster smoothness of his teeth.

They’re tying up Lahey, for easier transportation, when someone falters at the doorway.

It’s the kid, Derek knows. Lahey’s kid, Isaac. He’s nineteen years old, but he’s still living at home, and he supposed to be _asleep_.

There’s a second of pure, unadulterated stillness and then Isaac is turning on his heel, fumbling away. The movement is harsh and haphazard, fuelled by fear and the crash-start potency of adrenaline.

Stiles and Derek immediately give chase, but Derek shoves himself in front of Stiles, pushing him back, just in case.

He catches up to the kid before he can even get off the landing and onto the stairs. Derek grabs a fistful of his nightshirt and pulls back. The kid goes sprawling to the floor on his back, grunting hard as he scrabbles onto his belly, pawing at the hardwood in an attempt to get away.

Derek kneels down over him, twists his right arm painfully behind his back, presses a hard thumb into the centre of the kid’s palm until Isaac is trembling and whimpering beneath him.

Stiles’ hand pulls at Derek’s shoulder, trying to push him away from the kid’s agonised sobs of pain.

“Derek,” Stiles urges, tugging at his shoulder. “Derek, wait. No, just stop. _S_ _top,"_ he says, before he takes a deep breath and gestures at the kid. "Look at this.”

He pulls Derek upright, and they stand side by side, watching as Isaac cowers against the rails of the stairs. The kid is only wearing a pair of boxers beneath his sleep shirt, his skin is discoloured and bruised in places easily hidden, vibrant red and swollen in odd patches; bruises as large as the fist of the man they have tied up in the bedroom.

The collar of Isaac’s sleep shirt hangs loose and low, revealing the badly taped bandage that curls over the kid’s shoulder and over his clavicle.

-

In the end, they end up taking both the kid and Lahey, the former sitting in the backseat of Derek and Stiles’ car and the latter tossed carelessly into the trunk.

They dispose of Lahey in the basement at home, leaving him to gurgle threats and yells behind a gag whilst they settle Isaac into the living room.

Derek meticulously inspects each of Isaac’s wounds and cleans them, bandaging each of them with the utmost care, whilst Stiles cooks for and feeds the kid, who doesn’t look like he’s had a good hearty meal in a good few years.

The kid spends an age in the shower, but they don’t mind, in the mean time Derek sets out some clothes for him and Stiles pours out another bowl of hot soup.

Isaac doesn’t talk at all for the first day, flinching whenever any movement is made and keeping a wary eye on the both of them.

Stiles pets the kid’s hair, gently ices his bruises, touches his cheek, the nape of his neck, his chin.

“Don’t let him get away with what he did to you,” he tells Isaac quietly, eyes searching his face. “He doesn’t deserve it.”

He cups Isaac’s cheek, smiles tight and warm, and then he gets up to do the dishes.

Stiles always has been good at influencing people. He has a certain charisma to his voice, a maudlin sentimentality to his personality that makes him seem approachable. He’s the kind of danger that no one ever anticipates, one they willingly invite over with soft eyes and gentle smiles.

But he knows how to influence, and he knows precisely _who_ to influence too; he sees something in Isaac, something dark and rich and wonderful and he wants that to flourish, he _needs_ it to.

So he pets Isaac’s hair and kisses his temple and tells him it’s okay to want carnage.

Three days after that, Derek comes home from work and he feels antsy, trepidation burning beneath his skin. They’ve never kept a kill alive for this long before, and Bianca is running out of time, her mother out of funds.

He’s still in his scrubs when he sits next to Isaac on the couch, Stiles is over by the table fixing a bug on a laptop, glasses perched on the bridge of his nose as he squints at the screen.

Isaac’s eyes are fixed on the television, but Derek knows that the kid is fully aware of his presence. He’s been watching Isaac closely these last few days, how he seems starved of affection, how he soaks up every touch that Stiles offers him, how only needs _one_ more little push.

Derek has kept his distance the last few days, trusting Stiles to be able to handle it, but now he turns to Isaac. The kid flashes him a sharp glance, arms tucked around his knees as he stares at Derek, the beginnings of hope bleeding pure and strong in his eyes.

Derek opens his arms in invitation and Isaac all but falls into his embrace, sighing deeply as he folds himself into Derek’s heat, face pressed to Derek’s shoulder, hands fisted and crushed in the small space between their bellies.

“He hurt you,” Derek says, pressing a firm kiss into Isaac’s hair, feels the kid nod into his shoulder. “You can hurt him back.”

Isaac doesn’t say anything, for agonisingly long seconds he doesn’t move, he hardly even breathes.

But then, _then_ , he nods into Derek's embrace. Just once - hesitant but sharp. Above him, Derek locks eyes with Stiles.

-

Lahey lies naked and spread on a stainless steel table, bawling all too weakly and struggling fruitlessly against his binds as Derek and Stiles help show Isaac how to properly scrub up.

The kid sits over by the wayside, eyes flickering from his father to Stiles before settling on Derek, and back again. Derek is standing by Lahey’s head, disinfecting his surgical instruments, and Stiles is humming a tune to himself as he sharpens his own collection of knives and scalpels.

Stiles touches a wet tongue to his lip, before he's leaning over Lahey to make the first incision. The cut is delicately shallow, decadent and practiced as it runs from Lahey’s hip all the way over to his navel in a sweeping smooth curve, the sharp edged tip of the knife followed closely by a line of bright, effervescent blood.

Stiles exhales through his teeth as he watches the skin and the muscle separate, long and quiet as an unbelieving, pleasured smile ghosts over his lips. He sucks an incredulous breath as the blood beads over Lahey's skin like glossy pearl drops - and his eyes search out for Derek in their wonder.

He creates patterns and patterns of lines over Lahey’s body, over his thighs and his arms, his belly and his face - lines that are thick and short, long and razor thin, deep and gorged. Stiles sighs over each new incision, hovering eagerly over Lahey’s body, cataloguing the way that the blood seeps through skin, ignoring the way the man thrashes and convulses in pain.

Stiles pauses, looking up at where Isaac is standing stiffly in the corner, then he straightens and offers his scalpel, the metal gleaming red with blood where it balances delicately in between his gloved hands.

“You wanna have a go?” he offers, trying to keep the fervent smile on his face demure.

Isaac hesitates and Stiles’ face falls slightly.

“It’s okay,” Stiles soothes quietly, nodding in encouragement. “It’ll make you feel better, I promise. It’s okay.”

With a look over at Derek, Isaac steels himself, pulling his shoulders back as he approaches Stiles, carefully taking the scalpel.

He stands over Lahey for a long time, watching the way that his father’s eyes bug out of his head in fear, thrashing, thrashing, thrashing.

He takes a deep breath and sinks his knife into the man. But whereas Stiles has a controlled, talented motion in his hand when he handles his knives, Isaac is a novice. He cuts deeps and rough into the meat of Lahey’s stomach, twisting a little as the man thrashes and squawks, like a pig in heat.

A smirk flickers over Isaac’s mouth, barely there and easily hidden, but it darkens the blue in the kid’s eyes, makes him seem transcendent.

And it coils a wave of perverted pride in Derek.

Isaac steers clear of Lahey’s chest, Derek isn’t willing to risk any physical damages to the man’s lungs if he wants to carve them out, to hand them over in pristine condition to Bianca after Stiles hacks into the system to bump Bi up to the near top of the transplant list. Stiles will make up a donor to account for the pair of lungs, make sure that their trail is covered, just like always.

Now, Stiles stands behind Isaac, and he makes a half-abandoned gesture - wincing with a small noise at the back of his throat over the lack of finesse in Isaac's movements. The kid pauses and glances unsurely over his shoulder.

Stiles steps forward, moulding himself to Isaac’s back, one hand curling over Isaac's hip, his own fingers insinuating over the hand still holding the scalpel.

“Do it like this,” Stiles murmurs into Isaac’s ear, guiding the kid’s hand, their faces tucked close and intimate as they cut yet another line into Lahey’s body. Stiles looks at Isaac, unabashed rapturousness in his expression.

“See?" Stiles tells him, with quiet sounds hushed into his ear. "It’s easier like this.”

“Like this?” Isaac echoes, eyes fixed on Stiles’ mouth before they sweep over his face, locking on his eyes.

“Yeah,” Stiles whispers, swaying closer, and he smiles a little. “You’re doing so well.”

-

Derek cuts into Lahey when the man is on the brink of death.

Isaac hovers near Derek, eyes fixed on the careful, surgical movements of Derek’s hand between alternating to Derek’s face.

He watches steadily as Derek stores the removed lungs in ice, carefully seals and places the box away. Lahey’s desecrated body doesn’t even hold Isaac’s attention; much more focused is he on Derek and Stiles.

Later, hours and _hours_ later, when Lahey is disposed of, and Isaac almost forgets who he used to be, Derek walks into his and Stiles’ bedroom.

Stiles is leaning back on his elbows on the bed, Isaac stretched on top of him, sucking a mark into the skin of Stiles’ throat, grinding down on the thigh Stiles has slipped between his legs.

Isaac moans, deep and salacious, rocking down onto Stiles with amateurish abandon and Stiles only grins; head dropped back, eyes closed and mouth open as he sighs.

The sight of them, all intertwining limbs and sloppy kisses, makes lust burn low and quick in Derek and he takes a step forward, eyes running hungrily over them.

Stiles drops back onto the pile of pillows behind him, fisting one hand into Isaac’s hair as he opens his eyes and, with a smile on his lips and love in his eyes, extends a hand for Derek to take.

Derek takes that final step forward. He slips his hand into Stiles, lets himself be pulled over them, _into_ them until he’s surrounded only by the way that they move and shift around him.

After, Isaac lies naked between them, on his back as Stiles kisses him, profound and slow, in a way that makes Isaac’s spine curve, his fingers curling tight around Derek’s.

When they break apart, Isaac turns his head, searching for Derek’s mouth. He sighs when Derek his lips over his, slides his tongue into the heat of his mouth, leaning up for more.

-

A week after they find Isaac, Stiles swings by the hospital to drop off Derek’s lunch, leaning over the nurse’s desk to bestow a kiss on his boyfriend’s lips.

Celia rushes up to them, her hair is falling loose out of her chignon, her eyes are red-rimmed and raw, open wide as they fix on Derek.

Derek feels his heart fall right through his stomach, his blood pounds hard and harsh in his ear the closer Celia gets; fearing the worst about Bi, he barely even notices when Stiles curls his hand around his, squeezing in solidarity.

But then Celia is smiling, laughing with disbelief, walking right up to Derek and wrapping her arms around him.

“They found her a pair of lungs,” she says, voice muffled with incredulous emotion. “She’s going to _survive_.”

Behind her Bi is wheeled in by Cory-Elliot, she looks tired and thin, her face is devoid of any vigour, but she smiles anyway.

Stiles moves away from the nurse’s station, and he smiles at Bi’s father before he kneels down in front of her, taking her small hands in his.

“Derek’s told me so much about you,” Stiles tells her, squeezing her hands gently. “Congratulations.”

When he walks back over to Derek, folding himself into an embrace, Stiles’ eyes are a little blurry with tears.

“We did the right thing,” he says, biting his lip, pressing his forehead to Derek’s.

“Yeah,” Derek agrees quietly. “Yeah, we did.”

-

Bi’s operation is a success. Derek wasn’t able to actually be a part of it, but he drops in now and again as she recovers in her room. Stiles throws a dinner to celebrate the end of Derek’s stresses, inviting Derek’s friends Erica, Boyd and Kira as well as his own friends Allison, Lydia and his best friend Scott.

Stiles and Scott have been friends since forever, longer than either of them can remember and they know each other better than anyone.

Now, Stiles is observant. It’s undoubtedly one of his best skills, one he’s honed and perfected over the years - but he has a giant, unyielding deficiency when it comes to Scott.

Derek doesn’t have that problem. No, Derek  _sees_. He sees the way that Scott looks at Stiles sometimes, with that wariness mixed up with disbelief and reluctant ignorance.

If Scott doesn’t know, then Derek is sure that he at least highly suspects what’s going on; that he knows, on some subconscious level, exactly what Stiles and Derek are.

Scott looks at him sometimes like he understands the primitive danger Derek can be. He watches him like Derek is an animal, uncivilised and brutish, but Stiles only ever chalks this up to mere over-protectiveness.

The inclusion of Isaac into their fold doesn’t help, especially given the way that the kid drapes himself over Stiles and Derek alike. Isaac does it on purpose, Derek is sure, because he likes being watched and he _despises_ feeling invisible.

Scott is on the cusp of figuring things out, so Derek knows that they’ll have to be a lot more careful in the future.

He tries to act normal, tries to force through the tense civic politesse he and Scott always seem to have to endure when they’re in the same room together. He goes to work and uses the normalcy of that to soothe his worries some.

Derek meets Lou three months later and everybody’s busy: Stiles has a backlog of computers and consoles he needs to fix by the week’s end, Isaac has just started community college, Scott is leading the Sheriff's department in a nationwide search for Michael Lahey (who, rumour has it, is said to have fled the state in order not to pay the accruing mountain load of government debt he owes) and Derek’s constantly rotating in and out of the hospital.

Lou is a butcher from two towns over; he has a loud boisterous laugh and ruddy cheeks. He has a failing liver, a grown daughter named Chloe and a cat named Copper.

He yells jokes towards Derek’s general direction whenever he’s in the vicinity and flirts unashamedly with the other nurses; he remains jovial and content, always patient, indulging himself with board games and cards when he waits and waits and waits.

Lou doesn’t deserve to die.

So Derek goes home.

When Isaac’s asleep on the far side of the bed and Stiles has his head on Derek’s chest, he sighs.

“What’s wrong?” Stiles asks, tilting his head to look up at Derek.

Derek blinks slowly, carding gentle fingers through Stiles’ hair, “There’s a man.”

Stiles turns serious all at once, lifting up on his elbows to better regard Derek.

“Right,” Stiles says, nodding once. “What does he need?”

Derek pets Stiles’ hair, touches his cheek, the nape of his neck, his chin.

“A liver,” he murmurs, kissing Stiles' temple. “He’s a good man, Stiles, he doesn’t deserve to die.”

Stiles mulls it over, lifting an eyebrow in question, “He means a lot to you?”

Derek nods, “Yeah.”

There’s a long silence - Stiles thinking over the logistics of being able to pull this off so soon after their previous kill. He thinks and thinks and thinks, then, he leans over and presses a firm, warm kiss to Derek’s lips.

“Okay.”

-

**Author's Note:**

> We-ell. 
> 
> [curtsies awkwardly] 
> 
> I hope you liked it! :)


End file.
